When the Burman does work, he works with an energy and violence which is as astonishing as it is unnecessary. To see a loogalay in his energetic movements, dusting or tidying a room is a lesson to sluggards.
He takes his stand in the centre of the room, and performs a series of wonderfully intricate and far reaching flag signals with the duster. Then, after clearing away the broken china and other debris, he slowly makes a tour of the room, striking violently at each article of furniture once or twice with the corner of the afore-mentioned duster, and shaking the same menacingly in the face of every picture and ornament. Then he turns upside down the books and papers, carefully hides his mistress's work bag, and his master's favourite pipe, rearranges the furniture and the ornaments, which have come through scatheless, to suit his own taste, and the room is finished. In the matter of floor washing the Burman as a rule prefers to carry out the precepts stated in Mr. Chevallier's song: "What's the good of anything? Why nothing." To him it appears an act of supererogation to wash to-day the floor, which must certainly be dirtied again on the morrow.
But if he be induced, by the stern commands of his mistress to undertake the task, then indeed is it a day of mourning and discomfort for the whole household. No spring cleaning carried on by the most uncompromising and unsympathetic British matron, can approach the misery and upset caused by Burmese floor washing.
Every male member of the establishment, from the coolie who is mending the compound path, to the head boy, is recruited to the work, and reinforcements of "brothers" from the village are called in to assist. Every piece of furniture in the place is turned upside down, and then large cans of water are upset "promiscuous like" here and there, until the whole house is deluged. This accomplished, the concourse of servants commences to paddle about the house, rescuing books and cushions from the ravages of the flood, and flapping at the water with cloth and brooms. No definite scheme is adopted, but the chief idea seems to be to wet as much of the floor, walls, and furniture as possible. After this amusement has been pursued for about three hours, the floods are swept away through the drawing-room and out at the front door, and the damp and exhausted servants, after proudly announcing: "Floor much clean now, missis," retire triumphant, to rest their weary limbs for the remainder of the day. We did not often indulge our desire for cleanliness in this respect.
The Burman is a great lover of ceremonies and processions. On certain festival days long picturesque pageants wind thro' the villages on their way to the pagodas; cart after cart drawn by gaily decorated bullocks and filled with brightly dressed occupants, many of whom wear fancy disguises, and dance and posture during the whole of the ride.
It is a strange sight to see "grave and reverend seigneurs" from the village, arrayed in the most extraordinary costumes, reminding one of an English Guy Fawkes procession, standing at the front of a cart, posturing and pulling faces, in a manner that would be ludicrous, were it not so evidently full of meaning and solemnity. Imitation boats, dragons and beasts of all sorts take part in these processions, which for grotesqueness, brilliance of colour, and originality of arrangement are equalled only in a Drury Lane pantomime or the Lord Mayor's Show. But the soul of the Burman is not satisfied with his great half yearly festivals, nor even with the smaller festivities that take place at every birth, wedding, death, "ear-boring," or other ceremonious occasion. He seeks ever for other opportunities for procession and masquerade.
Our Burmese servants found vent for their feelings in waiting at table. They performed their duties with as much stateliness and ceremony as time, and our impatient appetites would permit.
No dish, plate, or spoon was brought without the co-operation of the three loogalays who were in attendance, and the lord chamberlain himself could not have conducted the course of the meal with more dignity than did our Burmese butler.
But the greatest triumph was achieved at breakfast time when we partook of boiled eggs. The clink of the cups, followed by a hush of expectancy heralded what was coming. The purdah would be drawn aside by an unseen hand, and the procession would march solemnly into the room, the three loogalays, one behind the other, bearing each in his hand a very large dinner plate, in the centre of which stood a small egg in its humble egg-cup.
Into the room and round the table they would march, then dividing, each with a bow deposited his precious burden before the person for whom it was intended, after which the procession was again formed, and disappeared slowly behind the curtain: all this with an air of solemnity and display that would not have disgraced a royal levee. Why this ceremony was confined to eggs, why the porridge and bacon were not equally favoured I cannot tell, I merely state the facts as I observed them, leaving the explanation to others more discerning than I.